


roses bloom in your dirty room

by likecharity



Category: Little Miss Sunshine
Genre: Blow Jobs, Crossdressing, Drunkenness, Finger Sucking, Incest, M/M, Makeup, Masturbation, Sharing a Room, Uncle/Nephew Incest, Underage Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-02-09
Updated: 2009-02-09
Packaged: 2018-01-24 08:32:09
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,073
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1598387
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/likecharity/pseuds/likecharity
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dwayne experiments with cross-dressing.</p>
            </blockquote>





	roses bloom in your dirty room

**Author's Note:**

> For [eryslash](http://eryslash.livejournal.com/), for her birthday. ♥ It's been a ridiculously long time since I wrote anything in this fandom, so apologies if I'm a little rusty. Title from 'I Can't Stay Away' by the Veronicas.

When Frank finds the red, lacy panties in Dwayne's room, he jumps to the most logical conclusion. He's not exactly an expert in matters of heterosexual sex, but it seems fair to assume that girls' underwear in a teenage boy's room usually means _exactly that_.

He's not snooping, he just gets really fucking bored when he's the only one in the house all day and sometimes he resorts to doing a bit of tidying up. And, okay, maybe there's no real _need_ to try and tidy under Dwayne's bed, but once he finds the panties, it's too late to be thinking of anything else.

He's crouched on the floor, holding the skimpy little undergarments at arm's length, when he hears the bedroom door creak behind him, and he drops the panties immediately, turning around to see Dwayne standing there in the doorway. Dwayne's face has always been pretty hard to read, so Frank can't tell if he's feeling embarrassed or angry or what, but then Dwayne smirks, letting his satchel slide off his shoulder onto the floor and coming further into the room.

"Nosy," he says simply, eyebrows raised, and pokes the underwear back under his bed with the toe of his sneaker.

"You—you didn't tell me you had a girlfriend, Dwayne," says Frank, feeling his face grow slightly hot as he gets to his feet.

He grabs for the duster that he got out of the cupboard under the kitchen sink in an attempt to explain why he was rooting around in his nephew's things, but Dwayne isn't paying him any attention. He just kicks off his shoes and slumps down on the bed, reaching for a book from his bedside table.

"I—" says Frank, and then realises there's nothing to follow.

He wonders if he should try and give Dwayne 'The Talk', but the thought makes his stomach do back flips, so he decides to wait until Sheryl does the spring cleaning and finds the panties herself.

"I'm gonna," says Frank, and coughs, edging towards the door, "I'm gonna go get the vacuum cleaner."

Dwayne hardly looks up from his book, but the smirk's back on his lips when he replies. "Okay," is all he says, and Frank leaves in a bit of a hurry.

***

  
For the next few days, he can't get the incident out of his mind. He knows it's the kind of thing he should just forget about (after all, Dwayne seems to have done, and it's surely supposed to be more embarrassing for _him_ ) but for some reason, it keeps coming back to him—the mental image of the bundle of red lace shoved under the bed, and the unreadable look on Dwayne's face when he came in.

There's one thing that's nagging at him in particular, though. Frank's in the house almost all of the time, and when he's not, another member of the family is. He can't even think of the last time Dwayne would have had a chance to be home alone. He also can't recall any time when Dwayne's gone out on his own. He doesn't exactly have much of a social life, and he almost always comes home from school at the same time every day. There've been a few times when they've all gone out together and Dwayne's wandered off on his own for a bit, but Frank always assumed that was just because the family was giving him a headache, not because he was going off to meet some _girlfriend_ to have sex with in an alley and steal her underwear afterwards.

After all, Dwayne still barely speaks at school and doesn't have any friends. Frank supposes his nephew's good-looking under all that black hair and sarcastic demeanour, but he's almost certain Dwayne's not what your typical high school girl goes for.

It just—it doesn't make any sense.

But the only other explanation his mind offers him is that the panties belong to Sheryl, the only female in the house old enough to be wearing something so—well, _sexy_ , and the thought of his sister wearing something like that makes him feel a bit ill.

Anyway, if they were Sheryl's and they'd gone into Dwayne's pile of laundry by mistake, how would they end up under his bed and why would he keep them there?

Frank would rather not think about it.

Unfortunately, he just can't seem to stop.

***

  
He's just got back from a job interview (one he most certainly failed, and rather spectacularly at that), the following week. It's a Thursday, which means Olive's at her dance class, and he and Dwayne are the only ones in the house until about six o' clock. He sees Dwayne's jacket slung over the back of the sofa and calls out as he shuts the front door behind him, but he gets no response.

Something makes him tread a little more softly than usual as he approaches the bedroom, and listen more carefully as he gets closer. He doesn't _really_ think Dwayne's got a girl in there, he can't imagine it at all, but, well, there's evidence to suggest—

"Dwayne?" Frank says, loudly but tentatively, as he stands outside the closed door.

He hears shuffling, a soft _thud_ , and then a breathless, "Yeah?"

Frank reaches out for the doorknob, hesitates, and then turns it.

Dwayne is sitting on the bed, book in his hands, the picture of innocence. "How'd the interview go?"

"You remembered?" asks Frank, surprised. He'd forgotten to remind everyone he was going to be out today, and hadn't mentioned the interview at all for about a week. He was hoping to be able to avoid talking about it in the event of it going badly, which—well.

"Uh, yeah," says Dwayne slowly, like Frank's an idiot. "How did it go?"

Frank finds himself looking around the bedroom, trying to find something that's out of place.

"Frank?" says Dwayne, waving his arm slowly, trying to get Frank's attention.

"It," Frank says, and then lets out a long sigh. It's partly the conversation topic, and also partly that he just became aware of himself _actually_ trying to work out if Dwayne's got a girl hidden behind the curtains or in the closet or something. "Well," he sighs, "it sucked, to be honest. I sucked. It was awful."

Dwayne makes a sympathetic sort of grimace, and then tosses Frank a paper bag. "Have a cookie," he says, "and then get another interview. Somewhere else. Where there aren't assholes that don't realise what a mistake they're making by not hiring you."

Frank smiles, grateful, not sure what to say. Then he looks at the bag, a little puzzled. "These are from that—"

"That bakery at the mall, I know," says Dwayne. "I stopped there on my way back from school. By the way, Mom wanted to know if you'd be able to start dinner tonight, she's gonna be late home from work."

Frank decides not to point out the fact that going to the mall would require Dwayne to take a completely different bus route home. He just opens the bag and takes out a cookie—double chocolate chip, because he thinks he deserves it—and nods.

"Sure," he says, taking a bite. "Sure. I can do that."

***

  
It's probably because he hasn't been sleeping so well lately. That'll be the reason. Usually, his sleeping pattern's like clockwork, and he sleeps soundly through the night, so that's why this has never occurred before. But now, for some reason, he's been finding it hard to relax at night, and even after he and Dwayne put down their books and switch off their bedside lamps, he's still awake for a good few hours afterwards.

And, apparently, so is Dwayne.

The first time, Frank almost embarrassed the hell out of both of them, because all he heard was these little sharp intakes of breath and a rustle of sheets and then Dwayne kicked the wall by mistake, and Frank kind of panicked and thought Dwayne was having a nightmare. He was _just_ about to ask if his nephew was okay—his mouth was open and everything, words on the tip of his tongue—when he put it all together.

And then his lips were clamped shut and he was lying there in bed as still as he possibly could, his eyes squeezed shut and his heart pounding. And it's been like that every night for at least a week now. He wishes he could somehow shut off his hearing, too, but rolling over onto his side and pressing his pillow to his ears would probably look a little obvious. He just tries to block the sound out as best as he can, but it seems like the more he tries to ignore it, the more obvious it becomes, the harder it is to focus on anything but the soft sighs and muffled moans.

When he listens closely enough, he can sometimes hear the slick sound of skin against skin, Dwayne's hand sliding over his cock and—

—there is nothing, _nothing_ that could possibly make this okay.

It's even harder for him to sleep after that, after he's listened to everything speeding up and finally coming to a harsh climax, Dwayne's breath catching in his throat, and then the quiet sound of the boy sitting up in bed, reaching for tissues. Frank rolls over, fakes a sleepy sigh, and waits for himself to eventually drift off, but his heart's still thudding away a mile a minute in his chest for what seems like hours afterwards, even when all he can hear is Dwayne's quiet, peaceful snoring across the room.

***

  
After a while, Frank gets used to it. He no longer angrily wonders why Dwayne can't just jerk off in the shower like _he_ does. He no longer debates with himself about the idea of asking Sheryl if he can sleep on the sofa. (Besides, she'd never allow it—for one thing, she wants him to have a bed of his own, even if it's the awful creaky cot he currently sleeps in, and for another, Frank's pretty sure she doesn't quite trust him to be alone at night quite yet.)

It almost becomes routine, and some nights he finds himself _waiting_ for it, disgusted with himself every second that ticks by.

It's around the same time as he starts to get used to it that he starts _reacting_ to it. Or rather, his body does, his cock growing hard in his pyjama pants despite him desperately willing it not to. The first time, he almost says _oh, shit_ out loud, and he tries to think of the most disgusting things in the world to block out the breathless sounds Dwayne's making, the quickening rustling of the sheets. It never works, just gets worse and worse until his throat's dry and his heart's about to beat out of his chest and his erection's positively _aching_ between his legs.

Even after Dwayne comes, Frank's scared he hasn't quite drifted off to sleep yet, and he can't bring himself to get himself off for fear of Dwayne listening to him, the way _he's_ just listened.

He jerks off furiously in the shower every morning, fist tight around himself under the hot water, the sound of Dwayne's erratic breathing echoing in his head. One night, he rolls over in an attempt to alleviate the pressure on his erection, and he catches a glimpse of Dwayne lying there, his hand moving fast under the sheets, his back arched, long white throat exposed, lips parted—and after that it's just completely fucking impossible for him to look his nephew in the eye during the day.

He decides it's just because it's been a long, long time since he's gotten any, tells himself it's some weird result of all the stress he's been putting himself under trying to find a job and a place of his own.

The whole thing turns into a cycle, unchanging, until one night in the middle of it all, Frank swallows a little too suddenly and almost chokes on his own saliva, letting out a cough that he just can't hold in. Dwayne goes utterly still and silent and Frank rolls over, curling up in on himself, holding his breath. Somehow, in that moment, he just _knows_ something's going to change. Neither of them speak or move for a long, long time, and eventually Frank manages to fall asleep, but he just knows, deep down, that it's not what you'd call a lucky escape.

***

  
He's right.

The next day—a Sunday—is different in a way he can't quite pinpoint. Dwayne's almost over-friendly, talking to him more than usual, and Frank finds it harder to avoid him. He's sort of bright-eyed and maybe a little on edge, and Frank assumes he's trying to act like last night didn't happen, trying to gloss over the fact that his _uncle_ overheard him _bringing himself off_.

It's all okay, though, until after dinner, when Sheryl decides they haven't had enough 'family time' lately and they should all watch a movie.

When it happens, Sheryl's making microwave popcorn in the kitchen, Richard's in the bathroom, and Olive's lost interest already, sitting beside Frank on the sofa, doodling on a notepad. Frank's just waiting, patiently, staring at the TV, as Dwayne kneels on the floor, scanning the shelves for a DVD to watch. By now, he's pretty much forgotten about the girl's underwear altogether until Dwayne crouches down, bending over to get a better look at the movies on the bottom shelf, and Frank catches sight of a sliver of bright red lace between the waistband of Dwayne's jeans and the hem of his t-shirt.

Frank's utterly speechless, just staring. Dwayne plucks out a DVD and gets up to put it into the player. This time, he glances behind him—just a quick, expressionless glance at Frank and Olive—before crouching down, the panties exposed once more, flimsy red lace over his pale skin. Frank feels his mouth go dry, his heart rate quicken, and Dwayne stands back up.

The DVD menu fills the screen, and Sheryl bustles in, giant bowl of popcorn in her hands. But the sure, knowing smirk that Dwayne gives Frank as he slouches down into Richard's favourite armchair makes Frank completely incapable of paying the movie the slightest bit of attention.

***

  
When the credits finally roll, Frank decides he's going to stay up, watch some TV before he heads off to bed. He tries not to look at Dwayne as he says so.

"Oh, why's that, Frank?" Sheryl asks, her tone full of sisterly concern. "Have you been having trouble sleeping?"

"Something like that," Frank nods, careful to avoid Dwayne's eyes.

"That's too bad," says Richard, _his_ tone completely void of any sympathy or sincerity whatsoever.

"Well, I'm off to bed," Sheryl announces. "Come on, Olive."

It's already pretty late and Olive is practically dozing off. Richard leaves and Sheryl is on her way, Olive following dazedly, when she stops in the doorway.

"Come on, Dwayne," she says.

"I want to stay up too," Dwayne tells her.

"No, it's late, you should get to bed."

"Mom, I'm not Olive, I can stay up late if I want to."

"You've got school tomorrow," says Sheryl firmly. "Bed. Now."

Dwayne rolls his eyes, but gets up anyway, trudging off down the hall. Sheryl says goodnight and Frank flicks through the channels again, restlessly. There's nothing he wants to watch, he just can't stand the thought of being left alone with Dwayne tonight. He doesn't know why, but the thought makes him feel slightly ill, and he distracts himself with mindless television for more than an hour before he decides Dwayne must be asleep.

He changes in the bathroom, brushes his teeth. Dwayne is facing the wall when he goes into the bedroom, and he breathes a sigh of relief when he gets into bed, settling down under the covers, hoping he'll get a good night's sleep for the first time in what feels like forever.

But barely ten minutes pass before he hears Dwayne stir.

He holds his breath, shutting his eyes tightly, but he knows what's coming. He hears the soft swish of the sheets, can practically visualise Dwayne's hand sliding down his flat, pale stomach and into his boxers. He wonders why, _why_ Dwayne didn't do this when he was out of the room. The sounds seem louder tonight, amplified, like Frank can't do a single thing to ignore them anymore. He hears every harsh breath like it's right in his ear, hears the groans like Dwayne's pressed up beside him. His cock's hard and straining against his pants in seconds, and he presses his face down into his pillow. The worst thing about all of it is that this time, the desire to reach down and wrap his hand around his erection is stronger than the desire for all of this to stop. He grits his teeth, willing himself to wait it out, but then Dwayne lets out a little gasp and he finds himself face down, pressing his hips into the bed, needing to relieve some of the tension.

He moves slowly, grinding against the mattress, unable to stop himself. Dwayne's breathing grows heavier and Frank wants, actually _wants_ to look this time, wants to see what his nephew looks like when he's so close to coming, sweaty and flushed. Images flash into his mind—the glimpse he caught a few nights ago of Dwayne, body stretched and taut as his hand worked frantically under the covers; the sight of the red lace underwear under Dwayne's jeans. He wonders if Dwayne's still wearing them, and he comes suddenly, hard, hot and wet in the clinging fabric of his pyjamas. For a moment he can't focus on anything, can't breathe properly. He swallows hard, hardly daring to move. His heart's in his throat as he listens, but the room is silent.

He falls asleep, uncomfortable and anxious, almost an hour later. The images won't leave him alone even in his dreams.

***

  
The next day, he tries to keep himself busy. He does the supermarket shopping in the early afternoon, and has a job interview shortly afterwards. It's for a teaching job at some school pretty far away from Sheryl's house, and he only applied on a whim. In the state he's been lately, he's not sure it'd be a good idea for him to be in the company of underage boys, and he can barely concentrate on the questions they ask him. He's pretty sure he'll never hear from them again (even though they claim they'll phone him before the week's out) but he can't bring himself to care.

When he gets back, Sheryl's already preparing dinner. Olive's chattering away to Dwayne, and Frank manages to dodge questions about what must seem like his hundredth failed interview as Richard launches into some incredibly dull story about work. He doesn't speak much during dinner at all, but Dwayne seems oddly cheerful, even interrupting Richard to ask some questions (clearly sarcastic, though the rest of the family seem oblivious to this even when Frank's stifling his laughter into his napkin).

Frank hopes to get to bed early tonight, but unfortunately Sheryl's decided 'family time' needs to be a regular occurrence, and she chooses him to pick out a movie for them to watch this time. Frank's never been a good liar, especially under pressure, but somehow the words are coming out before he even has a chance to think things through, and he's telling them all he's meeting someone for a drink at the bar down the road.

He doesn't even know if there _is_ a bar down the road, but Sheryl seems so thrilled that he's actually going out and spending time with people that she doesn't question it. Richard sort of raises his eyebrows and enquires as to Frank's friend's gender, but Sheryl shushes him and then Frank's free to go.

He knows none of this can be fixed by running away from it, but running away has always seemed the best option to him in the past, so why break tradition? As it turns out, there's a bar a few blocks away and it's not long before he's more drunk than he's been in ages, laughing at a barman's bad jokes and completely losing track of the time. It's one of the most depressing things he's done lately—lied to his family to go out and drink beer after beer on his own—but when the alternative is facing another night of agonising awkwardness with Dwayne back home, it doesn't seem quite so bad. Being out, surrounded by strangers and music and laughter, he can almost forget about whatever mess there is waiting for him back at the house.

On his way back, though, his thoughts turn to Dwayne once again. He knows that really, this shouldn't be such a big deal. It's not any of his business if his nephew likes to wear girls' underwear. Or rather, it _shouldn't_ be. But the look Dwayne gave him keeps coming back into his mind, the look that suggested Dwayne was doing it on purpose, _showing_ Frank, as if Frank wanted to see. And God, Frank _did_. In fact, he'd give anything to see it again.

He's quiet letting himself back into the house, assuming everybody is asleep (it's really rather late, after all, and a Monday night at that) and, despite the fact that he's had too many beers to count, he manages to make it through the living room and down the hall without walking into any walls or knocking anything over. He's vaguely aware that there's a dim light coming from the cracks around the bedroom door, but he doesn't pay any attention to it, and pushes the door open without thinking.

Dwayne stands in the middle of the room, facing the full-length mirror. Frank can't move, can't speak—he just freezes in the doorway, staring. Dwayne's wearing a short, black skirt, so short it's skimming his skinny pale thighs and exposing the lace tops of the stockings that reach up his long legs. He seems taller than usual and when Frank manages to focus properly he sees that Dwayne's actually wearing _heels_ , simple black patent leather shoes with heels a few inches high. His chest is bare—white under the dim, pale light of his bedside lamp, and glistening with a slight sheen of sweat—but a black lace garter-belt is slung low at his waist, just visible above the skirt.

Frank's so busy taking all of this in that he doesn't notice for a few seconds that Dwayne is looking right at him. Again, his nephew's face is almost expressionless. His shiny black hair hangs down, obscuring one eye, but his gaze is confident. His lips are slightly parted, possibly in surprise at Frank's entrance, although it's hard to tell. The main thing that Frank notices is the make-up. It's subtle, but he's sure Dwayne's eyes are outlined neatly in black and his lips seem shinier, plumper, _redder_ than usual.

He stares. He doesn't know how long he stares for, and maybe it's all the alcohol in his system making it difficult for him to focus on more than one thing at once, but it seems like there's just _so much to look at_. When his eyes find Dwayne's face again, he suddenly recognises the expression. It's _challenging_. Dwayne isn't moving either, he's not blushing or covering himself, fumbling for excuses. He's standing there, his back straight, his arms by his sides, looking at Frank almost _expectantly_. He's not going to make the next move. It's up to Frank.

But when Frank shuts the door behind him, when he takes a step closer and says something like, "I'm not—" even though he has no idea as to the rest of the sentence, Dwayne takes over.

"Don't say anything," he says, voice low, "please."

He presses his hands against his thighs, pushes the skirt up just a little. Frank can see the garters of the stockings, the flimsy black ribbons standing out stark against Dwayne's pale skin. He notices the way Dwayne's hands tremble slightly as he pulls the skirt up further. Frank catches a glimpse of stretched red lace and then before he knows what he's doing, he's lunging forward, his hands clamped around Dwayne's skinny hips and his mouth pressed to Dwayne's glossy lips.

Still, some part of him expects to be pushed away, or punched, even. And when Dwayne's whole body relaxes against him and his mouth falls open, Frank's more than a little surprised. The tension is released and Dwayne's tongue pushes into his mouth, their kiss hot and frantic, making Frank's head spin. He can feel Dwayne's chest against him, the heat of his smooth skin, and his fingers find the ruffled lace of the garter-belt, stroking.

The feeling hits him like a bolt of lightning. Suddenly all he wants to do is throw Dwayne down onto the bed, push up his skirt, tear off those lacy panties and—and—he doesn't know what. All he knows is he wants Dwayne panting and breathless under him, he wants to see smudged lip-gloss and rumpled stockings. All the nights spent lying in silence and listening come back to him, sweeping over him. He wants to hear those noises again. He wants to be the _cause_ of those noises. He doesn't want another night where he's left unsatisfied, jerking himself off in the shower the next morning and pretending not to think about Dwayne at all.

But it doesn't matter, it doesn’t _matter_ how much he _wants_ that. He's drunk, but he's not drunk enough for this, because what matters is that this is Sheryl's _son_ , a teenage boy, his _nephew_. It doesn't matter that he wasn't around for much of Dwayne's childhood, and has only seen him sporadically in the past few years, because none of that changes the fact that they share blood. And it doesn't change the fact that Richard and Sheryl and little Olive are all only across the hall.

"Please," says Dwayne, suddenly, bringing Frank out of his thoughts. He sounds breathless and pleading, anxious, one ankle dipped and bent, the heel of his shoe resting flat against the carpet. "Please don't."

Frank swallows. Everything sounds so much louder in the silence of the night. "Don't what?" he hears himself say. He doesn't even know when they stopped kissing; maybe he's drunk enough after all.

Dwayne's eyelashes flutter, thick and dark as he looks down at the floor. "Don't stop me," he says, and he pulls Frank in, one hand curling around the back of his neck, the kiss messy and deep and leaving Frank short of breath.

"We can't—Dwayne, we can't—" Frank stammers, even though he's already thinking of what's going to happen next, no intention of putting a stop to this.

Dwayne's fingers twitch at the hem of the skirt again, lifting up, and he hangs his head low. Frank sees the red lace again, bright and thin and straining over an unmistakable bulge beneath the fabric.

"I'm so—" Dwayne starts, but Frank swallows the rest in a kiss, one hand on the jut of Dwayne's hip and the other sliding under the skirt, gently pressing, feeling the heat and the hardness against his palm.

To his surprise, Dwayne moans into his mouth, and he shushes him, panicked, his heart leaping into his throat at the thought of someone hearing them, walking in and finding them like this.

"I can't—I can't help it," Dwayne stammers, "oh, _fuck_ —"

Frank's barely even started yet, but then, he remembers, Dwayne's never been touched by _anyone_ before, and the thought simultaneously thrills him and fills him with guilt.

"Just keep—" Dwayne murmurs, his breath shaky, "just keep—please—"

It's amazing how flustered, how flushed and needy he is within seconds, how it seems like all his composure is lost at one simple touch. Frank gently slides his hand across, feeling the texture of the lace and the skin underneath, and Dwayne bites his bottom lip, his eyes squeezed shut.

He doesn't need to say "bed", Dwayne backs towards it anyway, and they clamber onto it gracelessly. Frank leans down, lips pressing to Dwayne's again, then to his neck, sucking gently at the soft, pale skin. Dwayne spreads his legs almost instantly, wrapping them around Frank and Frank can feel the boy's erection against his stomach and the heels against his back.

"Why do you...why do you wear this stuff?" he asks, hoping Dwayne won't be embarrassed or offended.

"I dunno," Dwayne mumbles, shifting beneath him. "Just—just feels good when I do, I guess."

"You like how it feels?" Frank asks. He's honestly curious, just as curious about what possessed Dwayne to put on a pair of stockings as he is about what makes him find it so attractive.

Dwayne squirms, cheeks flushing just a little bit. "Yeah," he says, "yeah—Frank—just, _fuck_ , just _touch_ me—"

Frank obliges without a second thought, his hand reaching down between their bodies, pushing Dwayne's skirt up around his waist. He pulls at the waistband of the panties, trying to get them out of the way, and Dwayne is already writhing beneath him, impatient. Frank yanks them down to his ankles and returns his hand to between Dwayne's legs, curling his fingers around the stiff length of his erection.

Dwayne gasps, and bites his lip again, hard, his teeth smudged slightly with red gloss. His eyes roll back beneath his dark bangs, and Frank tightens his grip, moves his fist, sliding his thumb over the head of Dwayne's cock and watching as he struggles not to moan. Frank pulls back, wanting to really _look_ at him. The skirt is bundled up around his thin waist, and one of the garters has come undone, leaving one his stockings slightly loose around his skinny leg.

Frank licks his lips, swallows, and ducks down between Dwayne's legs, his own pants tightening as he takes Dwayne's cock between his lips, slick and hot, sucking it deeper into his mouth. Dwayne lets out a strangled sort of sound in his throat, then clamps his hand over his mouth, pulling so hard at the sheets that they come loose from the mattress, and Frank just keeps going, lips sliding up and down along the shaft, tongue teasing the tip. It's been such a long time since he's done this and he's sure he's completely out of practice, but Dwayne doesn't know any better, probably can't imagine _anything_ better, and Frank watches him throwing his head back, remembering the way he did that when he was jerking off.

He watches Dwayne's throat work, his Adam's apple bob as he sucks in a sharp breath. He licks one long line up Dwayne's cock, resting thick against his pale and quivering stomach, and Dwayne winces.

"What?" Frank whispers urgently.

"Your beard," Dwayne whispers back, but he's grinning.

"I'm—I'm sorry," Frank murmurs, touching his fingers to the rough hair on his chin.

But Dwayne shakes his head. "No, no," he says, cheeks flushing once again, "I—I like it."

Frank just looks at him a moment longer and then ducks back down, taking him in as deep as he can, tongue pressed flat to the underside, tasting before pulling back, circling the head with the pointed tip of his tongue. Dwayne muffles a groan against his fist and Frank unzips himself hurriedly, unable to hold back any longer, thrusting his hand into his boxers and clutching his cock. He takes Dwayne's cock back in again, feels it stretching his lips, looks up to see Dwayne pressing the heels of his hands against his eyes now, his back arched as his hips push up. Frank lets him, opening his throat until he feels coarse black hair against his nose, and he pulls back, hearing Dwayne practically _whimper_ in response.

He can hardly concentrate on himself right now, not when Dwayne's bucking up against him, lip-gloss slightly smeared across one cheek and black eye shadow smudged with sweat; red lace panties hanging off one ankle, tangled around a black heel. He knows Dwayne's close and he holds him steady, takes him in once more, right to the base, tongue teasing the tip until it's too much and Dwayne jolts and shudders underneath him, coming hard, filling his mouth.

He swallows once, then again, then reaches for his own cock quickly. He barely has a chance to appreciate the sight of Dwayne limp and breathless on the bed, long skinny limbs splayed out, before Dwayne's pulling him closer, shoving up his shirt and pushing down his pants, fumbling for his cock. Long, slim fingers wrap around him and he pushes into them gratefully, feeling Dwayne's eyes on him, watchful. Their lips brush and then Dwayne's tongue is back in his mouth, tasting himself, and Frank clutches at Dwayne's head, fingers threading through his soft black hair.

Before long he can't concentrate on kissing and they part, Frank's breathing erratic. His hand still rests at Dwayne's neck, his thumb against the boy's jaw, and Dwayne's fist moves faster, slick and tight around him as he turns his head and takes one of Frank's fingers between his lips. Somehow the sensation of Dwayne sucking on his finger, tongue rolling around his fingertip, as his hand slides along his cock, makes it almost unbearable, almost _too much_ , and Frank comes suddenly, lights bursting behind his eyelids, his body jerking forwards against Dwayne's.

It seems like he can't even move for a good few minutes, and all he's aware of is Dwayne gently wiping his stomach with a Kleenex and then kissing his neck softly.

"You can't fall asleep here," he whispers.

Frank chuckles weakly. "Oh, I know."

Dwayne kisses him on the lips, then, slowly, and sits up. Frank's vaguely aware of him undressing, and when he settles back down in plain white boxers it's almost as though he was never wearing anything else, the incriminating evidence presumably stashed back under the bed.

"Can I ask you a question?" Frank asks.

"Mmhm," Dwayne mumbles.

"Where did you— _how_ did you—"

"Get all the girly shit?" Dwayne supplies.

Frank laughs. "I guess so."

"I just say it's for my girlfriend," Dwayne shrugs, then pauses to yawn, "who doesn't exist, by the way."

Frank is just about to say "good", but Dwayne continues.

"Can I ask _you_ a question?"

"Of course," Frank says, though he has to admit he's nervous about what it is.

"How drunk are you?" Dwayne asks carefully.

"Pretty drunk," Frank replies honestly, though it's probably not what Dwayne wants to hear.

"Oh," says Dwayne in small voice. The silence that follows feels endless, but in reality Frank knows it's only a few seconds before Dwayne adds, "So drunk that you'll act like this never happened in the morning?"

Frank laughs again, open and honest, maybe a little too loudly. "No," he says, and turns, kissing Dwayne on the forehead. "No, I think we're done with that."

Dwayne looks surprised, but then he breaks into a grin and shakes his head. "We better be," he replies, and then pushes Frank with his hip. "We're acting like it never happened when we're around everyone _else_ though, so you'd better get back into your own bed."

Frank chuckles as he sits up. He knows maybe it is still just the alcohol, knows maybe it's just post-coital bliss blurring the lines between right and wrong and that tomorrow morning is probably going to feel horribly and painfully real, but he can't quite bring himself to worry about that just yet. This is the most alive he's felt in a very long time. Since the suicide attempt he's sort of stopped himself from feeling anything, just as instinct, scared it would end up that way again, but now he's feeling everything and letting himself overwhelm him and there's not a single part of him that feels like reaching for the razor blades.

"And you'd better take off your make-up," he retorts, stroking Dwayne's reddened bottom lip with his thumb.

"Fuck off," Dwayne laughs, and Frank does, because something tells him, comfortingly and confidently, that he'll be back in Dwayne's bed tomorrow night, too.

 

 

 

**End.**

  



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